#if you ask me to draw something with a consistent brush size i will just say no

[doyouknowthemossinman]

dug this one out of my sketchbook

hc that danny just mails mike a bunch of mugs over the holidays when he can't visit, so now the kitchen is stocked with an assortment of silly hot-cocoa and coffee mugs! (if you can't read them, danny's says "IDK I Just Work Here"; max's says "oh, that's my circus & those are my monkeys"; and mike's says "world's okayest dad")

[knight guard au <3]

[goldenshrikecomic]

FAQ

Please read these before sending asks! It's also good to check the tags listed on the pinned post to see if it's already answered. Where can I read GS? On Comicfury or DeviantArt. Two pages ahead on both Patreon and Ko-fi.

Who works on this comic? Only me, ratt/doeprince. You can call me either, I usually refer to myself as doeprince when it's more official, otherwise ratt or some secret third thing. I'm an amateur artist and I draw these comics for fun without much ambition to gain greatness. I want to make enough money to be able to keep working on more comics, and buy trinkets.

How can I support what you do? Why thank you for asking! All my income comes from making comics, so the support on either Patreon or Ko-fi is literally making my comic endeavours possible.

Do you have other projects? I work on some secondary comics. Jet and Harley and Honey are currently updating, Corpse is finished. You can find my other art on doe-prince.

How long will Golden Shrike be? I don't know how many pages. I hope it's less than 1000.

What programs do you use? SAI for lineart, CSP for coloring and bubbles, PS for text and backgrounds. Hoooow do you draw the antlers from different perspectives? I've made 3D models for each recurring antlered character.

Is GS going to have physical merch? Will it be printed? Consider this a no, but I won't say never.

Does GS have a map, official wiki or dub or something like that? No. There's a fan wiki out there full of inaccurate information so take everything in there with tons of grains of salt. There's no map. The dub on YT is separate from me, I've had no hand in it.

Can I make a fan character? Can they interact with yours? You can absolutely make a fan character! I just ask you not to make them interact with mine, at least not in any kind of heavy way. It's a slippery slope and I've seen people treat my characters very rudely to make them suit their needs.

Can I make fanart/writing? Yes! All sfw and well-meaning works are welcome. Just tag me so I can see them! Why are the borders black and sometimes white? White borders means it's a flashback.

Deer don't do that!!!!! Or birds!! Or plants! The moon shouldn't be that shape right now. Everything in GS is fictional for this very reason. I shall not be shackled by the chains of realism when there's entire new worlds in my fingertips. I aim to make things believeable in its context, not realistic. Are other animals sentient, can they talk? Sure they are and can, but not outside their own species. A frog can't hold a conversation with a deer, but a deer and antelope could possibly make it work. There's exceptions though.

How old are main characters? They're fawns right? No they are not, they'd all be in their early 20s if they were humans.

What does sire mean? It keeps popping up in different contexts. You can liken this term to 'father', as in your dad but also something like a priest. The priest isn't your dad but "father forgive me for I've sinned". So sire is a) respected stag, b) very formal way to address your father. Dame is the female counterpart. Why are the does so small compared to stags.... are you a freak... do you just hate women..... Listen when I started GS I had been dwelling in a place where monster deer characters had insane size differences and it became some kind of norm to me and of course it found its way into my comic. Now I just have to keep drawing those tiny women to keep up the consistency. I've created bigger ladies nowadays because I too think it's a little silly now.

Please please will this character ever get a mate? Will this pairing be canon? Will you please make this pairing canon? I won't spoil any pairings, I think it'd be the most boring thing to do to my own work! I'll only confirm the ones already established in the comic.

Is this a speck of ember? Is it snow? What is that floating thing, is it relevant to the plot? IT'S JUST MY DUST BRUSH LEAVE ME ALONE.

[mellosdrawings]

Forgive me if this has been asked before, but I really love your line work! What do you do to keep it so clean? I get carpal tunnels easily so it’s a pain for me to do consistently. Also what brushes do you use? I also use procreate :>

First thank you for the kind words <3

My brush for pretty much everything is the default Procreate Pencil that you can find in the Sketching section of your brushes. I don't think I've tweaked the settings but here are the main ones just in case.

As you can see, I don't use any stabilizer for this brush. I want it to feel just like an actual pencil.

How do I keep my lines "clean" then?

First: shitty textured brush with barely any weight. The problem with perfectly smooth brushes is that any shakiness from your hand will be visible in the end result, so you'd need a heavy stabilizer. I don't like it coz it removes the energy/dynamic lines. Smooth stuff isn't exactly my thing unless I'm trying to have a cartoon effect.

Second: I don't actually try to keep it clean. I redo some lines several times, keep some of the mess ups, etc. But one thing I do is keep my hand/arm flowy. I do wide moves, try to keep it all smooth. Unless there is an angle, the line is likely to be just one swift move.

Third: As my brush has very little weight (ie bigger or thinner lines), I manually add it by adding lines and darkness to some places.

Here's an example with my Liongarb Jamil. The first version is weightless, all lines are mostly the same size. The second adds some weight notably in the hair, headset, arms, and belt.

Here you can see the added lines I used to do the weight.

And so with those tricks you have the appearance of cleanness, even though it is actually far from clean.

(Also i never do straight lines. Those are the devil. When you do wide moves, all your lines are going to be arcs, and that's exactly what I'm aiming for. Adds dynamics and can be done swiftly without having to focus on making the line straight and pretty.)

My advice would be not to worry too much about cleanness. It annoyed me to no end before, until I finally decided to just do it however I liked and screw cleanness. I prefer to have dynamic and fun lines rather than a perfect drawing, and it does the trick.

When you read shonen manga next time (if you like reading those), pay attention to the line work. In most cases you will see it is actually shaky and unclean and sometimes even ugly. But it doesn't matter, because the moves are here. It's dynamic. That's what matters. (Jujutsu Kaisen example (open in your search engine or you might get an error warning), One Piece example, Haikyuu example)

As for the carpal tunnel pain, it's probably because you draw with your wrist instead of your whole arm. My whole right arm is always in pain and I had to get surgery in my wrist for a cyst last year, so I know how frustrating it is to be in pain when drawing. Here's a few tips:

I would suggest you see a physical therapist if you can, so you can get a better drawing position.

Regular stretching like rotating your wrists, flexing your fingers, etc, also helps a lot.

Doing bigger lines/moves with your shoulder or elbow instead of your fingers or wrist when you draw will remove some pressure from your wrist.

Don't hesitate to mix how you draw when one part starts to hurt so it can get some rest, and do take regular breaks in your drawings.

Finally I suggest that you get yourself something to make your grip on your pen bigger. I use these pen holders for children to help me. It might sound ridiculous, but half the strain in your wrist comes from your thumb. Having a bigger grip helps relax your position.

I hope all this blah-blah helps you, good luck with your art and your wrist o//

[valhethella]

I got quite a few DMs over the weekend on twitter asking about my brushes, and as with anything, your mileage may vary, and digital art isn’t made or broken by brushes, but having them never hurt! Talking about how you use your tools is just as important as talking about what tools you use, so consider this a small breakdown of my process for digital sketching.

First thing’s first, I avoid sketching on an untextured canvas. If you like to have a flat, solid canvas, I recommend working at 50% grey, or adjusting your canvas to be slightly off-white. The harshness of black on pure-white can be a hang-up for many people, including myself.

I sketch on paper textures sourced from my own old sketchbooks and papers. The one I use most frequently is available in my Sketchbook Paper Pack, and named Off White.

While a true-to-life pencil look is not what I’m actively going for with my sketches, these papers certainly help achieve it.

I do almost all of my work in Procreate, but learned digital art first in Photoshop. Anything I share here in regards to how I use brushes can be applied to any brush, I’m certain!

For my sketches, you’re seeing the work of one brush and one eraser.

For my brush, I use an altered version of Procreate’s native HB Pencil brush that I’ve named HB Pencil Beefy. It’s available in my 2021 Brush Pack.

For my eraser, I use Alexa Sharpe’s Soft Eraser. It’s available in their Eraser Brush Pack.

I use my brush at pretty consistently set sizes that are based on my standard canvas size, which is 6″ x 9″ 400 dpi or I use a double spread of 12″ x 9″ 400 dpi.

(If you work in pixels that’s 2400x3600 at 400 dpi and 4800x3600 at 400 dpi)

HB Pencil Beefy I use at 4%, 15%, and 50% size, with the brush’s opacity set to either 60% or 15%.

I set the brush to 15% opacity when I want to go in very softly with lots of that pencil texture. I use this when I need to scale back and really rough something out, or if I’m trying to get a sense of volume with some shadows or contours.

With Alexa Sharpe’s Soft Eraser, I use the eraser set at 2%, 10%, and 25% size. I only scale back the opacity on the eraser if I want to take something back to nearly gone, but still want those lines, faint, there as a guideline.

Jumping back to my file setup really quick, I like to work in a digital sketchbook! It’s just a procreate canvas with a paper texture that’s creased down its center, and all the added layers are my pages. This helps me feel less pressured to create something perfect or finished; It gives me the illusion of just noodling in any old sketchbook.

Okay. Back to the pencil. Below, I have a small idea of my process in sketching and drawing. This is not a how-to-draw demo, and it’s definitely not an anatomy demo – it’s just how I approach drawing using this brush. The page below, and the one above, were both done on a 9″x 6″ canvas at 400 dpi.

01.

Loose and light

using brush at 50% size

this brush does have a tilt dynamic, but I’ve never used it

02.

Nastiest phase

building up a little opacity

still only using brush at 50% size

use eraser at 25% size, if at all

03.

start refining

come in with 15% sized brush

at no point do I abandon larger brushwork, it just becomes about more careful and purposeful use

use eraser to hatch and cut back roughs

04.

hello 4% brush my beautiful little boy ♡

hatching in detail

build up opacity, using eraser to bring it back and to carve volume

jump back to larger sizes for larger forms and volumes

fiddle until “finished” 

P.S. the liquify tool is my best friend

[orbitsuns]

tada! as requested by anon & since this is one my frequently asked questions i thought i'd finally make it a proper post! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

first things first, i use photoshop cc 2018 to edit & with just a keyboard n mouse. my editing is HEAVILY inspired by the amazing stellarfalls !! i'm also still experimenting with things so i'll try to keep this up to date ♡

first i use smooth sharp (no topaz) then i will sometimes mess with curves if my photo is too dark to begin with. then i add my lighting which is just drawing on an overlay layer with a round soft brush :3

(sorry for the weird cropping i was recording the wrong window</3) i'm not a pro at lighting LMAO but i'll put it roughly where light would hit from the surroundings so here would be the fireplace, there's also a lamp behind them. i change the opacity so its not as drastic! for this step & the next i usually lean towards very light yellow, orange & pink for my brush colour!

next is the fun yet most tedious part, specific highlights! the most important part here when you're not using a tablet is shape dynamics > fade under brush settings (smoothing is also your friend as well!) this entire part is trial & error, you basically just outline the sim where light would be hitting them! when i'm done i use the blur brush, make it fit the entire image & click twice. i know that's like super specific it's just what i've found looks best so far •ᴗ•

hair strand time hair strand time!! i'm still not really satisfied with them yet (think i'm just being overly picky tbh LMAO) but this is how i do them now. basically following literalite's old hair strands tutorial, fade is once again your friend! i use a clipping mask to change the colours (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) i just use an edited photoshop brush & you can find the settings in literalite's video! but here are some nice hair brushes if you want more variety! x

finishing touches baby! time for some dust & noise ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ ) this gif shows a whole lotta nothing but i like consistency! anyways, what i'm doing is just sizing the image to fit then changing the blending mode to screen, i usually change the opacity to about 60% or 80% ++ i add 1% noise to the image!

and tada! we're done~ ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

but what about my older posts? all i used to do was add the butter action along with smooth sharp still + dust overlays! up until very recently i also added crinkled paper overlays to my photos

for overlays (things like moodlets, pop ups & text) the most common things i use are bunnithechubs' moodlet psd's! & buglaur's tutorial for text, i used this tutorial for pop ups in my older posts as well! other editing things i may use can be found at my resources page ♡

and now we're completely done, i hope that answers everyone's questions but if you still wanna know something or you're confused please feel free to send me an ask! ヾ(˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶)

[38sr]

#industryQs - Hello! I've been approached by an indie company to help with their Naruto fan project. I just bought your course, and just recently moved over to using CSP for all my illustrations. I really want to show I can be consistent with character design and the style of Tetsuya Nishio, but what Im having a hard time with is the linework. It looks like SP uses a vector pen with little weight/taper. What size/type of brush & canvas would you suggest to replicate the style more accurately?

Hello! My apologies for replying so late to this Q (I'm trying to catch up on a lot since I'm currently on a flight). Hmmm, it's hard to answer this since I don't have a reference of what your SP's work is. But if you're having a hard time replicating the linework of Nishio itself you might need to study settei and genga from the show. Settei Dreams is an excellent resource for character design sheets in anime and they tend to be the original hand drawn versions. Second, I would say you'd have get used to drawing with a pen tool that doesn't have line width...something like the Milli or Dot default pens in CSP. Also, practice making long, broad strokes to build up muscle memory and confidence in your lines. A lot of people tend to think using a specific tool will magically make your art look better but in reality it's a matter of draftsmanship skills like knowing when to apply line width to a drawing. In a previous ask I talked about the importance of knowing when to use short or long strokes regardless of what tool you are using. Also practice penmanship! I know it's a weird thing to say but it has seriously helped me with my own linework and also understanding other artist's linework styles.

I hope that answered your question!

[merchantarthurn]

hello!!! if you dont mind me asking what kind of white pen do you use for adding little highlights in your art? your art inspired me to start inking and coloring my traditional art and ive been having a lot of fun with it for a year or so now but i can never seem to find a good white gel pen to use 😭

you and me both friend 😭 I have a lot of issues with the ones i've tried and im thinking i might switch to just using white dip-pen inks (shirahama has given the brand she uses it's something like icy-white but i'll have to dig that out again).

the best luck i've had has been the following:

General notes of paint/acrylic markers - be extremely careful of smudging and drying times, both of the pen and whatever you have underneath. For any solvent-based mediums (paints, alcohol markers and ESPECIALLY linework inking) acrylic markers can pick up some of the colour or damage the paper and create smudges and tears. This is relatively easy to avoid so long as you wait for stuff to dry and work in small areas. The paint itself will take a while to dry so I usually let it sit for 30mins-1hr before putting it anywhere near my scanner bed. If you need to work on a larger area and the paper you're working on isn't pretty robust you should probably switch to a paintbrush and just use regular acrylic paint (which has a longer drying time).

I've also found that with smaller pen nibs getting a reliable opacity is an absolute crapshoot lol.

Artistro paint market pen - really good when fresh, but god help you if you go without using it for too long after you start using it. it'll gunk up and I don't know how to fix them. They are relatively cheap and come in packs at least. Doesn't seem to have larger sizes though.

Posca paint pens (various sizes) - far more robust than artistro if you store them right but regrettably more pricey. I've also found the finest nibbed white pen to be... deeply underwhelming. It never seems to have adequate pigment no matter how long I shake and prime it. By contrast the artistro gave the same sized line much more consistently, but at the cost of the pen nib itself being pretty unreliable.

Decobrush pigment - I've not got these in white so can't speak for them directly, but the colours I do have are pretty spiffy and it's a BRUSH pen, which gives you so much more control and a range of sizes per pen. There is some difficulty with low opacity on these though (since they're meant to be used with other decobrush markers), so I don't know how a white "corrector" would fair. The colour range is generally pretty gorgeous though, in the long term i'd like to have more of them.

General note on gel pens - I've got a love-hate relationship with gel pens honestly. I find I can get more consistent results out of them because the ink doesn't settle and you don't have to prime the nibs, but that's only if you can find a good brand... and then a good specific pen lol. I've also found an issue when you don't let the medium below dry properly re: smudging, but it also seems like if your work isn't boneeee dry (like overnight or multiple days of alcohol markers drying) the gel can very easily take on the colour of the pigment underneath, especially darker ones. Oddly this doesn't always show up when scanning, but it will look odd in person. Not always a draw back though - it looks great for white detailing in shadow.

Sakura Gelly Roll 08 - Not sure if there's other sizes (or their efficacy) so I thought I'd be specific because if there's one thing about gel pens the specificity MATTERS. I've got a couple of these and they don't disappoint (insofar as my expectations for gel pens go)

Uniball signo broad - this was my favourite until it ran out of ink. I cannot say for the uniball signo (without the broad part) which seemingly just gave up delivering ink and enjoys carving lines on the page and maybe delivering just enough ink that you can see where the ball is on the track it leaves behind. But the broad? I really liked. It honestly probably performs the same as the gelly roll but the pen just feels nicer to use lol, and the fact that it ran out of ink rather than dried out speaks for how much I liked it lol

as a general warning though - basically any gel pen or acrylic pen should be the last thing you do on your piece, because the second it goes down you will not be doing any more colouring in that area (unless you paint with acrylics). You can maybe use lineart pens on top of them once fully dried for at least an hour (ideally more) but it's very likely to smudge.

honestly... if you scan your work, there's no shame in cloning a white area of your work to use as a highlight post-scan. i always feel like im cheating until i remind myself that every digital-artist peer i have gets do to this at their leisure lol. i'd recommend getting a good scan/photo of the work before adding any highlights anyway because it's sooo easy to bugger them up and be unable to fix it (i say this as someone who never remembers and always regrets it lol)

examples:

you can see where the opacity doesn't quite hide what it's covering - an extra layer or digital correction would have been great. pretty sure this was artistro acrylic pen. but the unseen thing is i had to correct around the iris to the point where i said "well fuck i can't do what i want now" and just fixed it digitally.

dot highlights on the left and in/around the eye - definitely gelly roll. gel pens are really good for little pin pricks because you avoid the ball-point smearing things too thin and you can get pretty high opacity from that. also some more digital "help" with a bit of airbrush glow.

Definitely gel pen but i forget which kind, but I wanted to show what I meant by "picking up some pigments" and how can can be a boon, but also how sometimes the scanner just picks it up as white anyway (left is scanned, right is a photo - you can see it's purplish in the shadows)

[zenkindoflove]

Hi! For the ask game (how much is too much lol):

5. something you see in fics a lot and love

6. something you see in art a lot and love

16. a tiny detail in canon that you want more people to appreciate

25. a piece of advice for taking care of yourself in fandom spaces

Thank you, bb! There is never too much haha!

5. something you see in fics a lot and love

Elucien braiding or brushing each others hair. I love this headcanon we all collectively have and it's literally my FAVORITE. Anytime I see it, I swoon and lose my mind a little bit. Please, infuse hair intimacy in all your fics. There is never enough.

6. something you see in art a lot and love

I actually really love the diversity in depictions of Elain and Lucien. They definitely have an aesthetic, which is a lot of light and loveliness. You can see how complimentary they are to each other. But I think the thing that makes me the most excited is just how different people draw them every time. There are features that are consistent, but I love that we get a lot of size and hair texture diversity with Elain and color/racial diversity with Lucien. It feels like with them, there is a version of Elucien that fits however you might envision them and there is a lot of representation fans infuse into them that is beautiful I think.

16. a tiny detail in canon that you want more people to appreciate

Honestly, the half step. Maybe it doesn't seem tiny but my heart tells me people don't talk about it enough haha. Because the half step is everything to me! It is the hint we have that Elain feels more for Lucien than she lets on. It's the glimpse we see into the pull she has to him. SJM wrote that scene so cinematically. It's like how you would see a romantic scene play out in a movie. And while there are a lot of great Elucien moments people focus on and write about, that scene to me lives in my head rent free everyday. And I think a lot of people who don't get Elucien and write off their bond just refuse to remember that scene and how significant it was for everything that is hidden right now about Elain's feelings (you can't convince me Elain isn't secretly harboring desires and swelling feelings of longing for Lucien that she keeps denying and fighting).

25. a piece of advice for taking care of yourself in fandom spaces

I have had different experiences depending on the fandom I've been in my 20 years of being a fangirl. But I think the biggest way to take care of yourself is to find your people. Find a core group of friends who you can be your authentic self with. People who you can vent about fandom wank and squee about your OTP. People who will support you and your work/creations. No matter how chill or dramatic a fandom space is, those people are so important for your sanity.

Also - focus on fanworks first and foremost before all the other stuff. I'm always in favor of metas and discourse and being "too serious" about these things we love. None of us would be here if we weren't too extra about all of this and all of those things have a valid, important place in fandom. But creating and making for the fandom and your ship is a balm to the soul when the other things are becoming too overwhelming. It helps keep you grounded when other demons are whispering in your ear, pulling you down with the fandom wank.

love your fandom asks

[valhethella-moved]

I got quite a few DMs over the weekend on twitter asking about my brushes, and as with anything, your mileage may vary, and digital art isn’t made or broken by brushes, but having them never hurt! Talking about how you use your tools is just as important as talking about what tools you use, so consider this a small breakdown of my process for digital sketching.

First thing’s first, I avoid sketching on an untextured canvas. If you like to have a flat, solid canvas, I recommend working at 50% grey, or adjusting your canvas to be slightly off-white. The harshness of black on pure-white can be a hang-up for many people, including myself.

I sketch on paper textures sourced from my own old sketchbooks and papers. The one I use most frequently is available in my Sketchbook Paper Pack, and named Off White.

While a true-to-life pencil look is not what I’m actively going for with my sketches, these papers certainly help achieve it.

I do almost all of my work in Procreate, but learned digital art first in Photoshop. Anything I share here in regards to how I use brushes can be applied to any brush, I’m certain!

For my sketches, you’re seeing the work of one brush and one eraser.

For my brush, I use an altered version of Procreate’s native HB Pencil brush that I’ve named HB Pencil Beefy. It’s available in my 2021 Brush Pack.

For my eraser, I use Alexa Sharpe’s Soft Eraser. It’s available in their Eraser Brush Pack.

I use my brush at pretty consistently set sizes that are based on my standard canvas size, which is 6″ x 9″ 400 dpi or I use a double spread of 12″ x 9″ 400 dpi.

(If you work in pixels that’s 2400x3600 at 400 dpi and 4800x3600 at 400 dpi)

HB Pencil Beefy I use at 4%, 15%, and 50% size, with the brush’s opacity set to either 60% or 15%.

I set the brush to 15% opacity when I want to go in very softly with lots of that pencil texture. I use this when I need to scale back and really rough something out, or if I’m trying to get a sense of volume with some shadows or contours.

With Alexa Sharpe’s Soft Eraser, I use the eraser set at 2%, 10%, and 25% size. I only scale back the opacity on the eraser if I want to take something back to nearly gone, but still want those lines, faint, there as a guideline.

Jumping back to my file setup really quick, I like to work in a digital sketchbook! It’s just a procreate canvas with a paper texture that’s creased down its center, and all the added layers are my pages. This helps me feel less pressured to create something perfect or finished; It gives me the illusion of just noodling in any old sketchbook.

Okay. Back to the pencil. Below, I have a small idea of my process in sketching and drawing. This is not a how-to-draw demo, and it’s definitely not an anatomy demo – it’s just how I approach drawing using this brush. The page below, and the one above, were both done on a 9″x 6″ canvas at 400 dpi.

01.

Loose and light

using brush at 50% size

this brush does have a tilt dynamic, but I’ve never used it

02.

Nastiest phase

building up a little opacity

still only using brush at 50% size

use eraser at 25% size, if at all

03.

start refining

come in with 15% sized brush

at no point do I abandon larger brushwork, it just becomes about more careful and purposeful use

use eraser to hatch and cut back roughs

04.

hello 4% brush my beautiful little boy ♡

hatching in detail

build up opacity, using eraser to bring it back and to carve volume

jump back to larger sizes for larger forms and volumes

fiddle until “finished” 

P.S. the liquify tool is my best friend

[glowingbadger]

May I request something about Kaeya taking reader’s first time? Words cannot express how down bad I am for this man

So valid, Friend Anon- Kaeya is my #1 Genshin boy for a reason~

Kaeya x AFAB Reader's first time

NSFW 18+

Kaeya had been out of the city for the greater part of the week- "for work," he'd said, and you knew better than to press for details. Still, this was the longest you'd gone without seeing each other since he'd asked you to be his, and you'd constantly found your mind pulled back towards him. Not only worrying for his safety, though of course, that was an ever-present concern, but thinking about... well, everything about him that you missed.

Perhaps that's why, the moment you receive word to come meet him at his quarters, you make your way immediately to him and absolutely melt into his arms, leaning into his touch like a kitten. You feel his lips curl into his usual smirk as he kisses you, murmuring into the barest space between you,

"My, it feels rather nice to have been missed so much."

Instead of a reply, you tug him back to your lips by the front of his clothing, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. He laughs through his nose, but holds you close in turn. His tongue flits across your lower lip briefly, and your pulse races as need builds urgently in your lower body. You sigh against him, and Kaeya breaks from you, only to pull you by the hand towards his bed. The direct heat of his gaze makes it entirely clear what he has in mind.

Laying among plush blankets, Kaeya prowls up over you, and before long, he's filled your senses. His tongue drags warm along your neck, leading to a tender spot just below your jaw where he bites down. All the while, his hands trace an indulgent path along the curves of your body before settling at your hips, and he pulls you firmly against him. A subtle mixture of cologne and liquor sets your head spinning like a contact high, and it's all you can do to whimper out his name. Then, you feel a hard pressure between your thighs. Kaeya's hips sway sensually against you, grinding his clothed erection along your heat and waking nerves you never realized could be so sensitive. You gasp softly, your fists clench in his hair and clothing.

"Is this alright, darling?" he murmurs against your ear, the evident lust in his voice barely tamed, "I just thought, since we've clearly missed one another... it might be nice to celebrate our reunion."

"Kaeya, I..." your shy gaze meets his at last, "I've never..."

If you didn't know him so well, you may not even notice how his eyebrows quirk upward in surprise. His eye flickers down your body, then back up to your face. He brings a hand to your cheek gently, as though handling fine glass.

"Well now, isn't that something," he muses softly, "Would you like for me to be your first, Y/N?"

You chew at your bottom lip, just a bit nervous, but moreso excited. You nod, and take a breath.

"Yes, Kaeya- I... I want you."

"Then I'll be gentle," he says, and he's at least half sincere.

Clothing comes off in stages, and Kaeya explores your body at his leisure. Each inch of skin he gains is another pleasurable sensation for you to discover. His skillful tongue flicks at your nipples, his teeth nip down the center of your stomach, and at last, dexterous fingers slide between your thighs. Your breath catches, but his lips nuzzle into the crook of your neck as he whispers,

"Relax now, I'll make you feel so good you'll forget to be nervous."

It seems like posturing at first, but then, his fingertips press between the puffy lips of your pussy, and it's like electricity through your nerves. Slickened by your arousal, his fingers immediately find your clit and rub it gently but steadily. Your body arches up from the bed, only to meet Kaeya's hard body as he leans against you and kisses you deeply. His mouth receives your breathless moans as his touch becomes firmer and your thighs tremble around his hand. When you feel like your tender clit simply can't take any more, his fingers trail downward. Two digits gently press at your opening, only entering you the slightest bit as you adjust to the new intrusion.

"Mmm, you're so tight, Y/N," he coos softly, only barely parting from your lips. His fingers pulse rhythmically inside of you, pushing deeper slowly and steadily, while his hand maintains a consistent pressure against the nerves of your clit. Then without warning, his fingers curl upward at some indescribable spot, a weakness you hadn't known, and you gasp and cling to him. "This is only two fingers, you know," he goes on with that teasing lilt in his voice, "Are you sure you'll be able to take my cock?"

"Kaeya-!" you cry out as he strokes your inner walls more firmly, his pace picking up as he doubles down on that sweet spot. Then, your legs tense inward, your head tilts back on his pillow, and you feel your climax rush up through your core.

He pulls from you gently, then brings his fingers to his lips. Trailing his tongue along the digits, he savors the taste of your juices with a wolfish grin. As you work to collect yourself and steady your pounding heart, Kaeya kneels over you and draws your thighs around his hips. For the first time, you're given an angle to view his body in full. Your face warms as you size him up- he's all tight and toned muscle, a few stray scars from battles past- and then, your gaze travels downward. His manhood stands long and hard, the head flushed dark and the shaft decorated with bulging veins. Maybe he was right to tease you about fitting him inside.

When he says your name now, however, it's free of his usual flirtatious affect. His eye levels on you, and he says,

"Remember- just relax, and tell me if it hurts."

You nod without a word. Then, you feel the tell-tale heat of his tip pressing between your folds. Warm and wet from your prior climax, they easily part around him, until you feel the slight sting of his cock slowly pushing into your hole. When you look up at his expression though, his gaze is fixed squarely at the point where your bodies join. He watches his length gradually sinking into you until he's half-sheathed, then glances up to your face. You breath in and give him a weak smile, and he returns an unusually genuine smile in return.

"Gods, you're beautiful like this," his hand caresses down your inner thigh as his cock continues to drive deeper into you, "Look at you, taking me like you were made for me," he breathes out a low groan, "you feel wonderful, Y/N."

"You feel... big..." you murmur out, shifting a bit beneath him and doing your best to keep your legs spread for him. Kaeya chuckles, then hooks an arm under your knee and lifts your leg up as he leans over you. Deep blue hair spills over his shoulder and yours, spreading across the pillow and surrounding you in his scent. At this new angle, he's finally inside of you to the hilt, and his hips begin to rock steadily against you. You so warm at your core, and so wonderfully, incredibly full. At last, your lover seems to be falling into your shared pleasure as well. His breath is heavy, his hands grip at your hips more firmly, and he seems to be putting all of his focus into steadying his pace.

You feel yourself clenching and squeezing around him, and hear him moan out your name in reply. There's something so strangely beautiful about him now. His expression is oddly earnest, perhaps even vulnerable. Your heart thuds heavily against your chest. Kaeya thrusts deep inside of you, grinding the tip of his cock against that same wonderful spot that drove you to climax not long ago. Once more, you feel that delicious tension winding inside, and you whisper his name.

At the sound, something snaps inside of him. Kaeya kisses you, hard and passionate, pressing you down against the sheets. You feel the full length of his cock twitch, swelling against your gripping pussy with a surge of pain and pleasure. Whimpering into his kiss, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him to you as you feel your second climax of the evening wash through you, somehow more powerful than the first. With the rush of this release, you slacken against the bed, breathing out his name with worship in your heart and voice.

And not long after, you feel his body tense. Kaeya's hips snap towards you, shoving his length deep into you once, then again. Then, his breath catches, and he pulls out from your soaked pussy. With a shock of sudden heat, he spills his cum across your thighs and stomach. There's so much more than you'd imagined. His cock throbs with each pulse of his release that pours out onto your skin, until at long last, he breathes out and meets your adoring eyes. Panting, he raises a hand to brush stray hair from your face with a charming, slanted smile.

With a last heavy exhale, Kaeya falls onto the bed beside you. He takes a moment before looking you up and down, then he chuckles and says,

"As delectable as you look covered in me, I think we ought to clean you up." You give a weak laugh and nod, though you may need a little longer to catch your breath. Kaeya takes your hand in his and draws it to his lips.

"The afterglow looks wonderful on you, darling."

[gryffindors-weasley]

Always

Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader

Summary: When Draco finds himself on thin ice with his father, he still can’t seem to keep from you.

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: angst, secret relationship, poor parental relationship, stress/anxiety about the future, fluff, kissing

A/N: Flash back is in italics. This is an alternate version of my fic here !

The divination classroom. It has always been amongst your favorites. It was far more contrasting to the others, consisting simply of stone walls and arched ceilings, wooden desks and frosted windows. The room of divination was full of mismatched tapestries draping in ruffles from the walls in bursting colors, equally so in the various sizes cushions and chairs with rugs to match. A handful of intricately patterned ceiling fixtures hung down, tassels dangling from them. It was warm and it was welcoming in comparison to the cold and darker rooms.

“Why is it that we’re coming here?” Draco asks with a sigh, trailing behind you as you ascend the last few steps of the winding spiral staircase.

You turn to him with a grin and a raised brow, a look he soon returned as he grasped your hand in his own. “I think we could do with a change of scenery after all. I’m growing rather tired of the astronomy tower, love.”

“What’s wrong with the astronomy tower?” He scoffs in faux offense, his brows furrowing as you tugged him along with you into the vacant room as he looks over his shoulder once more.

“It’s far too cold and cloudy to go up there tonight. Besides, this is one of my favorite rooms in the whole castle if you must know. You will survive just this once, Draco,” you jest lightheartedly, releasing his hand to skip ahead of him as he groaned at your sudden absence and he had no choice but to follow you. Though he felt he’d follow you anywhere, really.

“And if I don’t?” He calls after you just to be difficult, pinching a piece of red velvet fabric between his fingers before his eyes roam back to you.

You turn on your heel and purse your lips at him, narrowing your gaze as you fight your smile. You shake your head as he holds your stare just the same, his head tilting and eyes squinting as he challenged you and you readily gave up on suppressing your grin for a moment longer.

“You didn’t have to join me if this is not to your taste, you know,” you say, and he rolls his eyes as he tugs you close to him by a gentle grip on your hand. “You’re more than welcome to leave, but I have a feeling you’d miss me too much if you did.”

He silenced your very logical words with a kiss, your laughter dwindling as you relaxed against him. His kiss was soft and tender as he hummed against your lips, his hand coming to brush your hair behind your ear as his lips moved from your own to sweep across your cheek. They linger just under your jaw before pressing chastely under your ear, his nose brushing over your skin.

“Must you always pick on me, darling?” He murmurs, his breath tickling against the shell of your ear.

Your soft laughter starts up again at his words, pulling his attention back to your gaze as he pulls back to look at you. You rest your hands on his chest, your fingers splaying across the black fabric of his button up and smoothing over his matching tie. “Yes, I think I must.”

With that, you turned away from him and left his loose embrace much to his dismay, twirling once in the center of the room with open arms. He watched as you smiled contently, your eyes falling closed as you tip your head back and bask in the peace that came with nightfall. In the enchantment of the room. For it was the time where you could love one another as freely as you’d like, for as many hours as the moon remained in the deep navy sky. He wanted desperately to love you in the light of day, without fear of prying eyes and listening ears. But you knew why things were the way they were.

He watched the way the moonlight danced across your skin, glowing against your effortless beauty as it shines in your hair. It left him wondering how someone so perfect could love someone so flawed. He found himself to be an anchor tied to you at times, his mistakes and current standing in the wizarding world something he felt kept you from thriving the way he knew you would, the way you deserved. You already were, far more than he could say for himself.

You radiate warmth and kindness, something he so desperately craved and found he could not keep himself from. To him, you were the embodiment of sunshine and he felt he was quite the opposite, rather bringing storms and rain. Yet still, you chose to love him in spite of it. He felt guilty, really. For having a father who made you feel like your relationship was in jeopardy without ever having the displeasure of meeting the man. For not being able to love you as fully and openly as he so desired.

“Are you going to join me or are you going to stare all night?” You quip, breaking him from his pestering thoughts.

His gaze flickered from the vacant spot you once stood in to where you sat on purple velvet cushioned stool. You smiled as the crystal sphere flowed before you and a grin of his own tugged at the corner of his mouth. He took a seat on the small crimson stool right next to you, finding himself a bit too tall for such a small seating arrangement but he decided against complaining.

The sphere before you contained a fog-like haze that swirled around much like the clouds just beyond the windows.

“Just what are we doing?” He asks, an amused smirk on his lips as he raised a brow.

“You’ve claimed yourself to be the best at telling the future what was it, four years ago? Surely you must be an expert on such a thing now, Dray,” you say, laughing at his scrunched nose and the way he gripped your stool and tugged you closer with one swift pull. “Tell me, what will our future be in five years’ time?”

He chuckles, shaking his head fondly as he looked from the crystal to you. “That’s quite simple, I don’t need some silly crystal to tell me that.”

You raise your brow in amused curiosity. “Tell you what?”

He looks at you attentively, his smirk softening to an adoring smile. “That I’ll love you as long as you’ll have me, and even more.”

You nearly rolled your eyes at his sappy words, but you found them too sentimental and the look on his face far too endearing to do so. That and you couldn’t ignore the heat in your cheeks from such a declaration. But you also didn’t have it in you to miss an opportunity to tease him.

“I love you, very much I do. But I have a sneaking suspicion you don’t know how to use that thing, Love,” You jest, and he rolls his eyes as he fights his smile.

“I’m convinced you love to torment me,” he frowns, unable to sustain it with the way you’re giggling at him.

Despite the lighthearted moment, he finds he can’t enjoy it fully with the worry weighing heavy on his mind. Your question was merely playful, but it had been one that frequented his thoughts far more than he cared to ever admit, more than he ever will admit. In a perfect world, he would have felt confident with the idea of loving you for the rest of his life. Would have felt rather excited for your future together because he loved you entirely too much for his own good. But it was hard to indulge in thinking of such dreams when there were things in particular pressing down on his shoulders.

That one night in particular, to be specific, he would never forget that.

Draco stood at the end of the vacant corridor, palms pressed flat to the cold surface of the window sill as he peered through the latticed glass. The commotion from the ball had been more than enough with just the thirty minutes he’d spent in the large ballroom housed at the opposite end of the long hallway. Even with the distance from the boisterous event it was still just as nauseating—his ears ringing with the clinking of glass and goblets, with the shrill laughter seeping into the space he wished would alleviate his tension. But alas, it did not.

The dusty air in the Manor had not done him any bit of good, not even a shred. His mind was far busier than any overly lavish event his parents could throw, racing from one thought to the next in an endless loop. He grew rather tired of pretending to be interested in any of the meaningless conversations he was subjected to, tired of standing along the same gray wall in the shadows in hopes they’d leave him alone. He could do that perfectly well now that the only company was himself.

The moonlight had trickled in through the windows in broken beams, illuminating every fleck of dust that had been floating around him, casting him in a small pool of light. He knew staying in there a moment longer simply wouldn’t be feasible, he’d go mad. Besides, he was far too distracted with more important matters, so much so he hadn’t wanted it to draw attention to himself. He had been far too distracted by you.

As he looked out over the garden it was inevitable that that had been where his mind would shift to. To each and every night you spent hand in hand within it, or the more than numerous kisses you shared tucked away behind decades old oak trees and crumbling statues. It reminds him of the way your hair glimmers in that very moonlight and just how your eyes sparkle. It reminds him how just how much he wanted to be with you in that very moment; he always found he’d rather be with you.

Fancy ballroom events had never held his interest very much, and the more they occurred the less that interest remained. Especially with the way thing seemed to be spiraling as his seventh year continues to break apart. The attendees only ever wanted to talk to him because he was the Malfoy heir, not because they cared to converse with him and how he was doing, but because they wanted to talk about he who he refuses to give the satisfaction of naming. He didn’t want to talk about things most undesirable, there was more to him than slytherin title, than to be a Malfoy. There was more to him than what he could use his social standing for. He knew that, you knew that.

He wanted so desperately to leave the bleak and endless maze of that manor. To part from that grand window and to be somewhere else, anywhere, with you. He wanted to—

“Draco,” a voice sounded behind him. A voice he’d rather not hear. His father. He squeezed his eyes shut in preparation for conversation. “Have you grown bored?”

The tone he held was not one of curiosity, he genuinely did not care less about whether or not he had been bored. He did not care about very much when it came to his son, his only child. For no reasons other than selfish ones, anyway.

Draco laughed bitterly to himself, his back still turned to his father. “Yeah, you could say that.”

It was quiet, save for the lingering notes of the piano and endless chatter that filtered out into the corridor. The silence from his father was near painful, and he’d be lying if he said his heart hadn’t begun to pound more vigorously against his chest. The absence in conversation was starting to make him nervous with each passing second, and he was beginning to think he’d left altogether. No, it would not be that easy.

“You seem rather distracted, Draco,” he states after a few agonizing moments, and his heart squeezes in his chest at the familiar sense of knowing woven around each word. He swallows thickly as he fixes his stare down on the windowsill. “Is something on your mind? Or someone, perhaps.”

He wants desperately to take a deep breath as panic settles thickly within him, but that would be far too obvious an indication that his assumptions were, in fact, correct. His mind races a mile a minute, however, and he finds himself scrambling to think of an answer.

“No, there is not, father. I’m just not in the mood for discussing luxuries with any of your friends,” he responds, tone sharp and defensive.

He hears a humorless chuckle sound closer behind him, a sound accompanied by the click of his walking stick. Lucius had his suspicions of you, ever since he’d noticed his son’s newfound distraction, newfound stubbornness to follow his rules. It had only further been confirmed by the smile his son seemed to be caught wearing when he thinks no one is watching. He knew it and he hated it.

Draco felt paralyzed in his spot, unable to form an excuse to leave this very situation. He was tense and increasingly bothered by the threatening presence behind him. He was unsure if there would be repercussions of his displeased counter at his question, hadn’t known just what to expect. Hadn’t known until he felt the hand of his father grab firmly to the back of his neck, cold and calloused fingers pressing to his skin just inches from his shoulders. He flinched at the sudden and startling action, breath hitching in his throat as he brows furrow in a wince.

“Listen closely, my dear son,” he muttered venomously in his ear. “I don’t know what it is you’re up to, but that girl of yours, the one distracting you from your orders—I will not tolerate it.”

He gulped at his father’s words, and he was quite sure he could hear the rhythmic and incessant pounding of his heart in the close proximity. His hands had begun to shake as they gripped tighter on the ledge of the windowsill. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The grip on his neck tightens a fraction. “You reek of her perfume, do not tell me you do not know what I’m talking about,” he says through gritted teeth. “You have me mistaken for a fool, Draco. Deal with it, or I will.”

His threatening words are accompanied by a brief shake to emphasize them, jolting him slightly before his harsh grip is released and his footsteps diminish. He was left to stand there alone once more, angry and afraid as his nostrils flare with his sharp inhale and his jaw tensed, eyes lining with tears. His lip quivered under the pressure to suppress it, knuckles turning white under his tightening fists. He knew of you.

“Draco?” The mere softness of your tone pulls him from his distracted trance, that and the way your hand settled on his cheek. “Are you alright?”

His hand comes to rest over your own as he looks at you and leans into your touch without second thought, his blue gaze flickering between your own. He simply nods, his thumb brushing gingerly over your skin as he smiles softly, assuringly. “I’m fine, darling.”

Your returning smile makes his heart flutter within his chest, though he knows that you knew him far better to believe that. But you don’t push it.

When you start speaking he doesn’t entirely know what you were saying in that very moment, for he was much more focused on the way your lips moved with every word, every syllable. On the way your lashes splay against the tops of your flushed cheeks each and every time you look down at that wondrous crystal ball. Or the way your hand pulled from his cheek to rest over his own, playing absentmindedly with the silver slytherin ring worn on his finger. He didn’t particularly like that piece of jewelry, but he only wore it for that habit of yours.

You were so enamoring in everything you had done and he’s sure that will remain true, so utterly spellbinding he feels as though he never stood a chance. You were far more enchanting than the very magic the two of you had known your whole lives, and he knew that to be factual.

“Remember when you—”

His lips had pressed on yours before you could finish your sentence, his hand slipping from under yours to rest warmly upon your cheek. The soft bout of laughter puffed against his lips was enough to let loose a flurry of butterflies within him, a feeling only you have ever caused even with just a mere glance in his direction. The tension in his body dissipated the more he kissed you, the worry dissolving from his mind in that very moment.

When he parted from you he’d thought better of it as he kissed you once, twice, three more times. His lips were pink and kiss swollen, chunks of messy platinum dipping down in his eyes as he gazed at you adoringly. You kissed him again, fleeting and sweet, and it left him smiling softly as his fingertips brushed over his lips. The action made your cheeks stain a deeper scarlet as you looked away momentarily, but you couldn’t help but to return your gaze to him.

“What was that all about?” You ask in playful amusement, still breathless and blissfully awestruck from the burst of affection.

He laughs at that, because you too were delightful and dizzying, and he can’t seem to hide that fact. He dips down and does so again, this time a mere featherlight kiss, his eyes fluttering closed as he relishes in the soft intimacy passing him by. One he does not want to end.

“Just because,” he whispers.

You reach up and smooth the worry creasing between dark brows, your fingers brushing under the hair falling over his forehead and tracing down his cheek. You smiled at the seemingly silverness of his hair in the moonlit glow, the pale blue of his eyes something else entirely.

You rest your forehead on his, noses bumping and laughter mingling before fading into soft smiles. “I love you, always.”

His smile widens a fraction at your words, sincere and true. It makes his heart pound in his chest and his cheeks stain the softest shade of pink as his lips ghost over yours, brushing together with every word. “I love you, always.”

He might not have paid too much mind to that crystal ball for fear of the outcome he felt couldn’t possibly be what he’d dreamt of. He might not have allowed himself to ponder too long on what awaits him for the future for himself, for himself with you. For if he had, he just might’ve seen that life hadn’t intended to be quite as cruel to him as he’d been thinking. Maybe if he gave it a chance he’d see his fate hadn’t been so terrible in the end. But for now, for right now he was content with setting those thoughts aside in favor of kissing you in the moonlight behind vibrant and mismatched curtains. He was content with disregarding his father’s absurd wishes, they did not matter.

He loved you now and he loved you always.

—

Tags: @amourtentiaa @hahee154hq @dracosathenaeum @snitches-at-dawn @harrysweasleys @awritingtree @anchoeritic @writeroutoftime @lunalovecroft

[wevegottogetaway]

El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone. 

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind. 

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and  a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?" 

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins. 

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-" 

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

                                                       ***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.  

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it. 

                                                       ***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm. 

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!" 

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before. 

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place. 

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?" 

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me." 

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?" 

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation." 

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order. 

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

                                                        ***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once. 

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test. 

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

                                                       ***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

                                                         ***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in? 

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

                                                       ***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming  and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer. 

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether. 

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides. 

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics. 

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that. 

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence." 

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!" 

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming. 

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go. 

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits. 

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows. 

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

                                                       ***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place). 

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm. 

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why. 

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop  for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes. 

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head. 

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

                                                       ***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her. 

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building. 

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant. 

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know. 

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be. 

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them  however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place." 

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection. 

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’." 

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is. 

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper. 

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n." 

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own. 

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear. 

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink. 

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his. 

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."  

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?" 

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words. 

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss. 

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans. 

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right." 

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?" 

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek. 

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead. 

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties." 

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra.  Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach. 

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips. 

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment. 

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways. 

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good." 

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough." 

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths. 

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness. 

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?" 

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering. 

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly. 

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind. 

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell. 

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry  doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused. 

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."  

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was." 

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference. 

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

[feitan-apologist]

Feitan x Reader (Not SFW)

Content Warnings: 18+ only, Noncon (dead dove do not eat), kidnapping+imprisonment, whipping, orgasm control, forced orgasm, verbal degradation

AFAB reader

Synopsis: reader is a beginner nen user and has been investigating the phantom troupe. instead of killing them, our smol sadist decides kidnapping them to play with might be more fun :)

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The moment you regain consciousness, you know something is wrong.

Your awareness comes back slowly, dragging itself up out of a murky haze, and with it discomfort. The first stirring of alarm comes when you try to move your arms. Still shrouded in fog, you strain for a few futile seconds before realizing that your arms are tied behind your back, you think with rope, and you can’t move them at all. The stiffness in your shoulders tells you that you’ve been positioned like this for a while.

Instinctively, you call forth your En, wanting to know where you are and what - or who - is around you. But when you reach for the power that’s simmered under your skin for the past year, always ready, always accessible, something just… doesn’t connect. You still have a life force, obviously, but it feels blocked off somehow, like it’s just beyond your reach, fingertips brushing it but unable to grasp ahold.

The twinge of alarm in your chest has ballooned into panic, and you start to sweat, heart hammering against the inside of your chest. From the feel of it, your ankles are tied to the legs of a narrow table that you’re currently bent over, holding your legs spread open; in addition to your arms bound behind you by an intricate braid of rope that secures you from shoulder to wrist, you can feel something fitted snugly around your neck. As you open your eyes, seeing nothing but a blank, dark wall in front of you, your attempt to lift your head is stopped with a jolt as the short chain attaching your collar to the table snaps taut. And most insidiously, the chilled air brushing against your skin tells you that you’re completely naked.

As your brain processes all this new information, a single coherent thought pops into your head - oh, fuck.

“You’re awake.”

The quiet voice behind you makes you freeze. You stop breathing, every muscle tense, as the voice’s owner slowly steps into your field of vision, and when you see who it is, you could swear your heart stops beating.

“Feitan.” Your strangled whisper, barely audible even to you, prompts the corner of his mouth to rise imperceptibly. The Phantom Troupe’s torturer stands relaxed before you, shirtless, pale chest shining in the dim light. His face is impassive; he seems completely emotionless as he stares down at you, bound and growing increasingly panicked before him.

“You can’t use your Nen,” he says in that soft, unsettling voice of his. “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now. But there’s no point in trying. You can’t escape.”

“W-Why am I here?” you choke out, every muscle in your body still rigid. You can’t stand to meet his gaze; instead, your eyes stare straight ahead, unblinking.

“You were getting a little too nosy for our liking. I was just going to kill you, but when we were going through your computer, we saw some… interesting things in your search history. I was so surprised, a bland little thing like you… I decided it would be a shame to kill you without playing with you first.”

You recoil in disgust at his choice of words. What the fuck?? What is he talking about? Your mind scrambles for a response, but he continues before you can get a word in.

“I can tell you’re afraid.” He removes a hand from his pocket and cups your chin, tilting your head as far as the collar and chain will allow and forcing you to lock eyes with him. He smiles, and your blood runs cold. The look in his eyes is unmistakably that of a predator sizing up its prey. “That’s good. You should be.”

With that word, he releases you, striding back around the table where you can’t see him. You strain your head, trying to track his movements, but the collar gives you a very limited range of vision. “Wait!” you cry, “what are you - please, what do you want? I’ll - I’ll give you what you want, just please let me go.” Your voice comes out terribly weak-sounding, and you inwardly scream, pulling against your restraints with a renewed vigor, desperately trying to conjure forth the Nen that continues to elude your grasp. He snickers, the sound coming from a good distance away, so you jump in shock when his hand caresses your ass a moment later, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You shrink from his touch, shrink from the thought of what your revealing position, bent over like this, implies. No… he wouldn’t… he can’t…

“I already have what I want. I’ve caught you, and now I get to have my fun with you.” There’s no mistaking the glee in his voice, filling you with dread, your mind whirring ever faster toward the inescapable truth of the situation. His hand slips away from your ass, and you hear a faint rustling - he’s holding something, but you don’t know what. The seconds tick past, no indication of movement from behind you, and you find yourself holding your breath in anticipation. Your heartbeat thuds against the table, against the inside of your chest, the utter silence threatening to drown you, the blood roaring in your ears, what is he going to do to me, oh god oh god oh god-

Your thoughts are cut off as the whip cracks across your ass, hard, and you scream - honestly at first merely from the shock of the impact and the loud noise, adrenaline numbing your senses. But a moment later the pain registers in your brain, a line of white-hot fire running across your backside, and your throat tightens, breathing growing fast and shallow. “Feitan, please-”

“Oh, that hurts, does it? I thought you were tougher than that.”

The whip slashes you again, lower this time, leaving another line of heat in its wake. “Stop!” you cry, desperately fighting back the tears forming in your eyes. He laughs wordlessly, letting a long, silent second stretch out before slashing you again, then again, each crack of the whip punctuated by your cries. You strain your head, trying to see where he is so you can anticipate when the next hit will come, but he’s out of your field of vision - the only thing you can see is the blank wall in front of you. He’s varying the amount of time between whips on purpose, you realize, sometimes landing three or four in agonizingly quick succession, sometimes letting long seconds stretch between each one. The anticipation has you shivering, squirming in your tight constraints, not knowing when the next lick of pain will cut into your flesh. He’s trying to get inside your head, amplify your fear and helplessness, make you weak.

And fuck, it’s working. You’ve taken worse than this in training, far worse, and he’s right, you are tougher than this. A whipping should not be enough to have you undone, tears now streaming down your cheeks, body flinching as the blows land across your exposed ass and thighs. Except… training had also never left you with this terrible tension between your legs. The criss-crossing web of angry red marks Feitan’s whip had created were practically glowing with heat, and while the stinging, burning sensation was undoubtedly painful, with the anticipation and the fear and your adrenaline-addled brain… it also felt a whole lot like pleasure.

As the whip landed again, the cry you let out was unmistakably close to a moan. You could hear the delight in Feitan’s voice as he stepped closer, running a hand across the angry flesh of your backside, his cool fingers tracing the lines he’d made. “Like I said, I was surprised at the things you watched to get off. We share many of the same tastes, you know. But between the two of us, we both know which one is the little masochist.” At the word masochist, his hand dips between your legs and strokes the wetness that’s gathered there. You gasp as his fingers find your clit, swirling over it in a motion that draws a moan equal parts shame and desire from your lips. “What a fucking slut you are,” he murmurs, “getting wet from me whipping you. You’re pathetic.” You cry out as he slides two fingers into you, curling them against just the right spot.

“Don’t,” you whimper, “please.”

“Oh, you don’t think this feels good?” Feitan asks. “Fine. Maybe you’ll prefer this.” His fingers slip out of you and you can hear him rummaging with something underneath the table. Realization dawns on you as a telltale buzzing starts up, a moment before he presses the vibrator against your clit. You moan, back arching involuntarily as you press down onto the wand, shame flooding through you a moment later at how good it feels.

“No, stop, don’t… don’t make me-”

“Oh, I’m not making you do anything,” Feitan says, securing the vibrator in place and sliding his fingers back into you. He leans over you, drawing his fingers in and out in a slow, consistent rhythm. “It’s not my fault you’re a little painslut that gets off from me hurting you.” He lowers his head to your bare shoulder, and as you feel his cool breath on your hot skin, you wonder if he is bizarrely going to kiss you. When his mouth meets your flesh, however, it’s his teeth that sink in, eliciting a new, different sort of pain. You can’t help but moan as he harshly works his mouth on you, sucking and biting your skin in a way you know is going to leave a bruise. You writhe, trying to get away from the sensations of pain, of pleasure, the two almost indistinguishable now, overwhelming you. You realize with horror that you’re already well on your way to orgasm - usually it takes you longer than this, but fuck, you can’t help it, you can’t stop the bombardment of stimuli hitting your body, his fingers working expertly inside of you, the burning marks covering your backside, the vibrator inescapably pressed against your clit.

“Please stop,” you beg, humiliated, desperate, you can’t come from what this monster is doing to you. Being degraded like this is bad enough, but you can’t give him the satisfaction of enjoying it.

“Getting close, are we?” Feitan leans further over you, whispering his next words directly into your ear. “Don’t you dare come without my permission. Understand?” When you don’t respond immediately, he grabs a fistful of your hair with his free hand and pulls, hard. You yelp, and quickly stutter your assent, yes, you understand. “Good.” He lets go of your hair, releasing the tension on your scalp, but in the next moment his mouth is on the side of your neck, working his teeth into the soft flesh above the collar. You jerk away but are stopped short by the chain, and he digs his teeth in so hard you’re afraid he’s going to draw blood.

It’s jarring having him so close, so intimate. The faint scent of his hair, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the wet heat of his mouth - it’s a disgusting parody of the intimacy shared by actual lovers. You close your eyes, squeezing out the tears still freely flowing, and try desperately to dissociate. You don’t want to be here, trapped in your aching body; you will your mind to go anywhere else, to drift off in some fantasy that will let you escape the horror of what this man is doing to you. But you can’t. If it were purely pain you had to endure, you’d be able to do it, you were sure, but you’d never had to contend with someone using your own body against you like this.

The seconds tick past as you writhe and moan and shake beneath him, gritting your teeth, breath coming in short gasps, and then - you can’t do it. Your resolve breaks, you can’t do it, you can’t hold back any longer, you feel like you’re going to explode, and you let the pleasure come freely, gasping as you reach the edge. Remembering his threat, you ask through clenched teeth, “Can I come?” Feitan leans back, huffing out a breath, and you can feel the self-satisfied smirk on his face. He’s won.

You don’t understand when the stimulation suddenly disappears, his fingers slipping out of you and the vibrator pulling away. Your pussy clenches around nothing, desperately seeking the pleasure that was there a moment before, the orgasm still so close. A sound of utter betrayal escapes your lips as you realize what he’s done.

“What? Weren’t you asking me to stop just a few minutes ago? I thought this is what you wanted.” The glee in his voice is unmistakable, and in that moment, you hate him with every cell in your body.

“You fucking basta-Aagghh!” your words are cut off as the whip slashes across your ass again, catching you completely off guard. You sob in anger and pain as he whips you hard, five times in immediate succession. The brief break your tender flesh had been granted only heightens the pain as five fresh marks join the lattice of swollen lines covering your ass and thighs. “Fuck!” you scream, fresh tears springing to your eyes.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Feitan says derisively. In the next instant, he’s pressing the vibrator against your clit again, laughing at the way your body immediately reacts, arching into the stimulation. You can’t fight the whimpers escaping your mouth, every muscle in your body tense and shaking as the orgasm previously denied to you builds back to a crescendo.

“Please can I come?” you cry, and the fact that you already know the answer doesn’t ease the agony as Feitan pulls the vibrator away, leaving you teetering on the edge but unable to push yourself over. You sob as he whips you again, no longer making even the barest effort to hide your pain and frustration. You realize distantly that you’re breathing too fast, too shallow, and your head is spinning; it’s a good thing you’re laid out on this table, because there’s no way you could remain standing right now.

Done with the whip for the moment, Feitan leans over you, sliding two fingers deep into your cunt and rubbing your clit with the other hand. “Do you know how absolutely dripping wet you are right now?” he murmurs. “It’s pathetic.”

“Fuck you,” you reply through gritted teeth, but then he curls his fingers in just the right way, and- “Aaahhh, pleeeease may I come?”

“No,” he replies, voice full of malicious glee, pulling away, and you brace yourself for the whip you know is coming. You’re caught completely off guard, then, when he presses the vibrator against your clit just moments later, and you’re immediately pushed back to the edge.

“OhhhhfuckcanIcome?” you gasp, and when he pulls the vibrator away, the noise you make is one of absolute despair. You’re exhausted from the pain, from the stress, from the edging; you’re dimly aware of how not in control you are, mind clouded over with fear and desperation and the overwhelming desire - no, need to come, you’ve never been this desperate in your life, and while you hate the man standing behind you with your whole being, you’re also utterly dependent on him for the release your body is begging for. “Feitan,” you whimper, “please, I’m begging you, please, stop, I need to…”

“Oh, you need to, do you?” He runs his hand over your ass, fingers grazing over the lines he’s left, dipping lower to teasingly trace over your cunt before returning to their original path. “You’ll just die if I don’t let you come, will you? Is that how this works?” He laughs at your quiet stream of pleases, muttered almost unintelligibly as you shake and cry before him.

His hand disappears, and suddenly he’s in front of you again, crouched down so that your eyes are level with his. His fingers curl into your hair and yank, forcing your eyes open, and you stare at him through a haze of tears. “You want to come? Earn it. And don’t even think about biting me - you won’t live long to regret it.” He stands, hands fumbling with the front of his pants, and you understand as he frees his cock and shoves it against your lips. You hesitate, recoiling at the thought, but as he grabs your hair again and pulls hard, you open your mouth for him.

Feitan doesn’t hesitate to shove his cock down your throat, making you gag and struggle to turn your head away, fighting his grip. He holds himself there for a long moment, then pulls out long enough for you to gasp for air before shoving himself in again. You struggle to control your tongue and lips as he fucks your mouth in earnest, staying just shy of the point that will make you gag but setting a rapid pace that almost immediately has you struggling to take in enough air. You’re torn between a desire to make this as unpleasant as you can for him and just wanting it to be over as quick as possible. Not that you have much control over that anyways - both of his hands are tangled in your hair now, controlling the speed and angle of his thrusts, and you can’t so much as turn your head away.

“Look at me,” he growls. You strain to meet his gaze at this awkward angle, and a jolt runs through you as you lock eyes. His face is twisted into what could only be described as a manic euphoria - eyes wide, pupils dilated, a slight sheen of sweat coating his temple, and a smile of pure, sadistic delight on his face. It’s the expression of someone unhinged from reality - and who’s loving every moment of what they’re doing.

Feitan pulls out of your mouth suddenly, leaving a strand of saliva hanging from your lips to the head of his cock. He surprises you as he releases his grip on your hair and lowers a hand to caress your cheek; the gesture is soft, completely incongruous with the rest of his actions. “You look perfect like this, you know,” he says quietly. You stare back at him in shock, at a loss for words. What is that expression in his eyes? If the thought didn’t strike you as absolutely absurd, you’d call it affectionate.

You don’t have time to say anything, though, as he strides around the table again and positions himself behind you. You let out a choked cry as you feel something hard press up against your opening, and within the next moment he’s pushed inside you. The “No” dies on your lips as he slides in deep, stretching you out, hitting every nerve inside you, and your back arches against your will. You don’t want it to feel good, you don’t want this at all, but the fresh tears that slide down your cheeks as he begins fucking you aren’t ones of pain. Your body screams in pleasure every time he slams into you, rough and fast, his hands gripping your whip-damaged hips, and you’re reminded just how close you were to coming before. The slight gasps coming from behind you tell you that Feitan is getting there as well, and you fleetingly rejoice at the thought that this will be over soon.

The sound that leaves your mouth when he reaches down to rub your clit would have made you ashamed, before. Now, the only thought in your head is of release. You’re at the edge again immediately as his fingers practically attack your clit, rubbing too hard, too fast, it’s almost painful, and you don’t even attempt to ask before letting the orgasm bloom inside you. In that moment, everything falls away. Your entire awareness is focused on the pulsing heat between your legs and his cock still pounding into you, your pussy clenching around every thrust as you come harder than you ever have in your life. You don’t know if you scream or sob or stay silent. You aren’t aware of anything besides how unimaginably, exquisitely perfect you feel.

It’s bliss.

.

You barely notice as Feitan comes inside of you, pushing in as deep as he physically can before eventually pulling out, leaving you limp on the table. You don’t know how long you lay there, eyes shut, mind drifting in and out of awareness as he does god knows what in the room behind you. You like it this way. It’s so much easier not to think.

When he eventually walks around into your field of vision, he’s fully clothed, face covered by a bandana, his earlier expression now replaced with the usual impassivity. He crouches so his face is at eye level with yours and gazes coolly at you. “You disobeyed me.”

“I - what?” you mumble, raising your head.

“You came without asking permission,” Feitan says calmly, drawing a knife from his pocket. You stiffen, eyes wide as he raises the blade and delicately traces your jaw with it, keeping the pressure light enough to not break the skin. “I told you you’d regret it if you disobeyed me. And you did it anyways. You’re even more of a masochist than I thought.”

“No - I - that’s not-”

“Shut up.” The blade is at your lips now, tracing the outline of your Cupid’s bow. “I made a good choice when I brought you here. You’re going to be a very entertaining little pet. Now-” he stands abruptly. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I’ll punish you then.”

You twist your head around as you try to follow his departure from your field of vision, a sense of relief filling you at the thought of even a temporary reprieve. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he says from behind you. You jerk as he clicks the vibrator to life and presses it against your overly sensitive clit, trying to angle your hips away. He only pushes it harder up against you and secures it in place against the table with what sounds like a metal clamp. “Maybe this will make you more obedient.” You squirm, arching your back and wriggling your hips to try to escape the stimulation, but it’s no use - the vibrator is pressed up snugly against you, and it won’t budge. Your stomach drops as you realize how he’s going to leave you.

“Wait!” you cry, mind racing for something to say to make him change his mind.

Your answer is the slam of the door behind him as Feitan walks out.

[bonjour-rainycity]

Double Heart | Chapter Sixteen ~ Cosima

|previous part|

Pairing: Haldir x OFC

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 3021

Warnings: None

A/n Every chapter, you all make me smile so much <3 Thank you!

Haldir leaves and I let out something halfway between an exhale and a groan.

What. Was. That.

My room, which is a very respectable size, felt like a matchbox as the space between Haldir and I minimized. He went from weeks of keeping a consistent physical barrier between us to ghosting his hands over my arms, my hips, my waist…It’s…new.

And when he held me close, his chest so nearly brushing against my back—

I shake my head against the onslaught of scenarios that run through my mind.

I should not be thinking of him this way.

Haldir is a friend, a guide, an instructor, nothing more.

I let out a deep breath and begin to pace, trying to work off this newfound energy. Haldir and I trained for nearly two hours, I should be exhausted. Instead, I feel wide awake, invigorated, jittery, like I couldn’t possibly go to sleep. I groan, taking my hair out of its bun and letting it fall around me. I stop in my tracks, glancing at the spot where Haldir and I stood so close together just moments ago.

I cannot stay here.

I tear through the open door, turning right and taking the staircase that leads to the first floor. I turn left and, before I know it, I’m standing in front of Alex’s closed door.

I knock.

The door creaks open. “Hey,” he greets, opening it wider to allow me in. “What’s up?”

“I uh,” I purse my lips, having not really thought through my plan. I do need a distraction though, and being out of my room is already helping clear the fog from my brain. My eyes catch a pile of books on his nightstand. “I came to help you research, if that’s okay.”

His face lights up. “Yeah! Yeah, of course. I’ve read those three so far,” he gestures to a small stack by the window, “and there’s nothing helpful in them. Everything else in English is fair game. Is there anything specific you want to look into?”

“Fæs.” I’m surprised that the answer comes to me so easily, but as soon I speak the word, I know it’s true — I do want to learn more.

Alex nods slowly. “Yeah, okay, I think I’ve got a couple books on that here. Let me….” He trails off, spinning in a circle as he searches for a specific volume. “Ah.” He squats down and grabs a book near the foot of his bed, reaching it up to me.

An image of Haldir, crouched on the ground, hand warm against my ankle, staring up at me with such intensity, so much confidence—

Alex stands and I look to the ceiling, trying to will away the image and the feelings that come rushing along with it.

“What makes you want to learn about fæs? Isn’t that an elf thing?”

I purse my lips, stalling until the embarrassment fades enough to look Alex in the eye. “Haldir mentioned that humans have their own version of a fæ — a little weaker, a little different, but generally the same concept.” An idea begins to take form, and I roll with it. “I was wondering if—assuming that our fæs remained unchanged between our homeworld and Arda—well, if we could use it somehow, tap into it and reclaim our memories. If anything were to remember, wouldn’t it be our spirits?”

Alex nods slowly, a grin tugging at the edges of his lips. “That’s actually not a bad idea. Great thinking! Let me know if you find anything.”

He settles into the couch, leaving the bed for me. Gratefully, I cozy up against the pillows. I open the book, skimming the introductory chapter, which is basically just a summary of the core concepts Haldir has already explained to me. When I’m on chapter three, the sky passes firmly into night, and even the plethora of candles Alex has lit aren’t enough to keep my eyes from straining.

I pull my knees to my chest and lean forward, glancing over at my friend. His cheeks — which had been gaunt when we first reunited, now take a healthy shape. His shoulders no longer hold vestiges of tension — they lean relaxed, leisurely, against the back of the couch. Even in the limited light, he squints his eyes and continues to read, seeming intent on soaking up as much knowledge as he can.

I rest my chin on my knees. “I need to ask you something.”

He looks up, his eyebrows drawing together in concern. “Okay?”

“Are you alright?”

He sighs, shifting in his seat. “Cosima…”

“No,” I protest. I don’t care if it’s uncomfortable, he needs to talk about things. He’s been bottling it up since he arrived in this world and it hasn’t done anyone any good. “I mean it.”

Alex groans, shaking his head. “Fine, okay. It’s…strange.” He pauses, but I wait, holding out hope that he’ll continue. He does so, slowly. “I’ve…gotten myself to accept that I’m in a different world, but I can’t wrap my mind around the how. That’s stressful. We don’t have a solid plan to return home, nor do we know if we’ll find one. That’s depressing. And, I have flashes and snippets of memories, but otherwise, I feel like I don’t know who I am.”

My heart breaks. Here my friend is, hurting, lost…

And I’ve left him completely alone.

Alex tilts his head to the side, contemplating. “But I do feel better than when we arrived, or even just from a few days ago. Having things to do, feeling useful and like I have agency for the first time…it’s really good for me. And, well,” he dips his head then raises it again, leveling his eyes on me. “It’s helped me realize something else — that I owe you an apology.”

I blink in surprise. I’ve been the one that has pretty much abandoned and ignored him. I should be apologizing.

“On the road, I said some pretty mean things, and I isolated you from your friends and tried to take control. I didn’t mean for it to be like that. I was…” he sighs, shaking his head, “scared out of my mind. I already felt like I couldn’t do anything to fix the problem, and then on top of that I felt like you had completely given up and it was my job to save us both. And I know now that’s not the case, but for a while…” He trails off, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re just more adaptable than I am, I guess.”

I push myself off the bed, cross the room, and sit next to him on the small couch. Automatically, he throws an arm over my shoulder, the movement so familiar and easy that he must have done it a thousand times before. I lay my head on his shoulder, the bone there pressing against my ear.

I take a deep breath. “If we had really been kidnapped, or injured, or anything more realistic than what actually happened,” he gives a small, tired laugh, the movement shaking his shoulder, “you would’ve been the one to get us out. I know it. Even now, you’re the one putting in all the hard work to get us home. I’m sorry I’ve pretty much left you to handle it alone.”

He squeezes my upper arm gently. “I appreciate it, but I don’t blame you. I get it.” He shrugs again, a measure of sadness creeping into his voice. “It’s not like you remember anyone enough to miss them. If you have people you like here, of course you’d focus on them.”

I feel my lips pull into a guilty frown. “They like you too, you know. You all just need to spend some more time together—”

“Nah,” he shakes his head, pushing a smile onto his face. “It’s okay, honestly — we just don’t click. But I have you, and Baranor and I get along well, and I have this project to work on. It’s enough for me.”

I sigh, resting my head against his chest. I hope that’s true.

{***}

At breakfast, Lavandil and I make plans to meet at her shop. She gives me directions and I hurry up the stairs to my room, changing out of my tunic and leggings and into something a little more fun for my first day of work. I settle on a dark purple gown, one that billows down my arm in puffy gossamer sleeves and has a slight, sparkly train. I’m probably a bit overdressed, but knowing Lavandil’s extravagant wardrobe, I’ll fit in just fine. I bound down the staircase, eager to discover the market and the shop. I turn left, intent on exiting the building.

And crash into the middle of someone’s chest.

Hands grip my upper arms, steadying me as I stumble back. Once I’m righted, I look up, and my mouth falls open.

“Cosima—”

“Haldir—”

Both of us freeze, having spoken at the same time. I purse my lips, waiting for him to go first. He raises an eyebrow, evidently expecting the same of me.

But I can’t make the words happen. His hands on my arms send my mind right back to the tension of last night, to the room that started light and open and turned more intimate than it should as the night went on.

Haldir’s arms fall to his sides. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you turning the corner. Are you alright?”

I nod, my eyes darting from his chest clothed in a cobalt blue tunic up to his eyes. The intensity from last night is gone, now replaced with a noticeable degree of hesitance.

Interesting.

Did he feel something last night, too? Or does he know I did, and now feels awkward around me?

That last thought sends a wave of stress through me. Was I horribly obvious? Have I messed everything up?

“Are you off to Lavandil’s shop,” he inquires, pulling my mind away from these anxiety-inducing thoughts.

“Yes.”

He quirks a smile. “Then I imagine you will be seeing a lot of my brother today. He has a tendency to hang around there.”

“Probably a result of him being in love with the shop-owner,” I quip, voice going high with nerves.

He raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I suppose that would do it.”

We fall into awkward silence.

Haldir clears his throat. “Well, enjoy your day.”

“You too,” I nod, crossing paths with him to exit the building.

Once outside, I take in a gulping breath.

Did I create all that weirdness? Or is he struggling to figure out how to act around me, too? And why?

Things have never been strained or awkward between myself and Haldir. Once he got over his initial suspicion of me, we got along easily. I feel like he understands me better than the others and, if I had to pick a favorite, as Rumil prompted me not so long ago, it would be, without question, the supposedly-stern Marchwarden leading our company. And, based on the amount of time he spends with me of his own accord, I would say he enjoys my presence, too.

So, that begs the question, what could have happened to turn all that ease on its head and replace it with stilted, awkward, unsure interactions? We were fine until last night—

I suck in a breath.

My brain, apparently useless until I looked the issue straight in the eye, starts piecing together instances of my time with Haldir, forming a terrifying and exhilarating picture.

Sleeping between me and the entrance to our camp so I wouldn’t be frightened. Spending hours alone with me lying on a blanket staring up at the stars. The way he panicked and looked after me when I had my migraine. Big things like that and smaller ones, too — the way he teases me, the way he always makes sure I’m cared for, whether that means sharing from his canteen or sending me with food when I’m likely to miss dinner. The way he’s conscious of my fears—heights, orcs, you name it—and provides support without coddling me, enabling me to handle and face them on my own. The way his arms, so gentle yet so secure, held me close, even for just the smallest of moments.

Could we…have feelings for each other?

Could this rapid and strong attachment to an ellon I met mere weeks ago be something other than friendship?

With a sinking feeling in my gut, the momentary rush of excitement falls into something much more sinister. Something that, in any other world would be a wonderful, thrilling feeling—the one I am developing feelings for maybe, potentially, might see me the same way—is here, horrifying.  

Because elves live forever and love only once.

And a human lifespan is dismally short.

Rumil’s face after our conversation yesterday, crestfallen and saddened, comes to my mind.

If my mere friendship with these ellyn will cause them grief when I’m gone, then even entertaining these thoughts about Haldir….

It’s deplorable.

From the heart of the city, the bell chimes. I’m late to meet Lavandil.

I shove down the ache that makes my lips quiver and hurry down the path that will lead me to the market.

The distraction of working with Lavandil will be my lifeline.

I cannot allow my feelings for Haldir progress any further. So, though I’m not sure how effective I’ll be, I swear not to think about him for the rest of the day.

{***}

“What happened last night between you and Haldir?”

Damn.

I made it two hours.

I swallow, trying to seem busy as I hang a tapestry on a display. “What?”

Lavandil comes up beside me, using her height to hang the art properly. “Rumil told Orophin who told me that Haldir came back from training with you and seemed quite flustered.”

My body runs hot. “Did he?”

“Mhm,” she nods decisively. “Apparently he returned to the room in a rush, wouldn’t say a thing, and then spent over three hours at the training grounds, sparring quite harshly with some of the guard.”

Even though the tapestry is hung, I pretend to fuss with it, not brave enough to meet Lavandil’s eyes. “Nothing happened. Maybe he just wanted a better workout — I can’t imagine I was much of a challenge.” I try for a joke, and mercifully, she gives me a pity laugh.

Her demeanor softens. “Cosima, you know there’s nothing wrong with having an attraction, or even feelings.”

“Of course there’s something wrong with it,” I shriek, much louder than I meant to. I look at her with wide eyes, surprised by my outburst.

Thankfully, no one is in the shop, and Lavandil only regards me with calm eyes, no judgement in them.

“I’m sorry,” I hurry to apologize, sitting myself in a chair at a nearby table. On top of it sits a beautiful garnet tablecloth — Lavandil’s work. She sits across from me.

“It’s alright,” she smiles kindly, resting her elbows on the table to mirror me. “I had a similar disposition when I realized I loved Orophin.”

“I don’t love him,” I correct quickly.

She puts her hands up in the sign for surrender, though her bottom lip pulls like she’s trying not to make a face.

“I don’t,” I insist, putting effort into keeping my tone non-angry. I lower my voice, worried, perhaps irrationally, that Haldir himself will go waltzing by and hear my dreadful confession. “It’s, at most, an interest, and probably not even that. Likely more of a curiosity.”

“Well, interests are nothing to be ashamed of.” Her tone matches my low volume and carries in it a gentleness I could never hope to emulate.

“Yes, they do!” My voice drops to nearly a whisper. “Lavandil, he is an elf. You know I’m human. The two don’t mix well.”

She huffs. “There’s nothing to say that. An elleth here, Arwen—”

“Is walking into a tragedy,” I cut her off.

Lavandil’s eyes narrow. “Too many people see it that way, and it is getting quite old. Do you know what I see? Two souls in love. Though their futures are bleak and incompatible, their presents are filled with joy and love and the connection that can only come from two fæs who want each other so badly finally bonded. They would still face pain if they ignored their love for each other — so why not give themselves what joy they can?”

“But she will die—”

Now it’s Lavandil’s turn to interrupt. “Arwen is fully grown. She is wise, and I trust that she knows herself well enough to make the choices she has. Her life is ultimately her own. She can spend it how she pleases.”

I press my lips together, head falling to stare at the deep red tablecloth. Despite Lavandil’s conviction, her words do nothing to allay my fears.

The only thing that awaits an elf bonded with a human is grief and death.

Arwen may have made her choice, but so have I made mine.

“Rumil said elves can take centuries to fall in love. Is that true?”

Lavandil pauses, caught off guard with my change in topic. “I-in some cases, yes. More that it could potentially take that long for an elf to admit they are in love. Often, even if they are not ready to accept it, their fæs know. And even then, that is the timeline in the most rare of cases. You know, for Orophin and I it only took a matter of—”

I raise my eyes to her, pleading. “Lavandil.”

She sighs, staring at me like she wishes I had asked her something else. “Fine, yes. Elves fall slower than humans.”

I take in a deep breath, nodding.

Good.

Because if I have only just noticed these feelings, chances are, if Haldir were to follow suit, he is way behind. The instance Lavandil described from last night, the other hints that show he might be feeling something…I can end them now.

I have time to stop this.

I have time to save him.

A/n So, funny thing, @errruvande got pretty close to guessing Cosima’s reaction to realizing her feelings for Haldir, so shout out to Liza!!! Seriously though, love her, love her blog, I’d definitely recommend checking her account out! Thank you all for reading! 

|next part|

|masterlist|

Tolkien tag list: @anangelwhodidntfall @eru-vande 

Haldir tag list: @tolkien-apologist

Double Heart tag list: @lainphotography @themerriweathermage @thophil2941btw @kenobiguacamole @wishingtobeinadifferentuniverse @from-patroclus-with-love @boywivlove @ordinarymom1 @my-darling-haldir @sweet-bea-blossom @moony-artnstuff

[marshmallowprotection]

[Previous Post]

By his calculation, it was no real surprise that she couldn't remember anything that she'd said to him. 

She had been floating on the edge of elixir and the aftershocks it left in her system, most of what left her lips was nonsensical, at worst. She had far more clarity with her ability to speak but she had been easily distracted and confused if he let her talk without some kind of motivation. 

Ray hadn't even had to pry. It was as if she were a Goddess who truly knew everything. She knew things that Ray had to double check for their authenticity but found she was right every step of the way there. There were things that he would have otherwise had no way to know, but she was right enough for him to put every word to thought. 

She had firm thoughts and opinions, and it was precious to see her get upset over nothing. She would get so inflamed over this or that, but she spoke of the stories of himself and those around him like it was her livelihood. As if the world around them was her everything. 

However, some of her tone needed to be corrected. She spoke highly of much of the RFA, even if she was able to easily proclaim what she saw as a perceived fear or hesitance. He didn't care if she pitied the most of them… he just didn't want her to feel anything for the liar and the traitor. It's why he didn't ask about them. 

But, the rest of the members? 

He had enough information to draw out anything he wanted from them. She even had her own suggestions for what could work on them. He noted it in her phone, where she had been trying to figure out what may bring the RFA to Mint Eye. It was amusing to think she had considered it before meeting him. It was just another reminder that she was meant to be a saint to Mint Eye. 

Setting aside his feelings in knowing that her information had been given to her because of a game, he knew it didn’t matter how she got it. She wielded it with grace and luxury in her hands. She built upon the backs of what she had been handed and made it stronger... she found holes in stories and mended them by her hands. 

"Princess, relax for me," he was as gentle as he could be but she simply hadn't had the time to learn how to sit still. She was coming more and more out of her gaze so she was having such a hard time with her tremors. "I know it's hard. But I need you to look your best today." 

Either way, Ray had what he needed and plans could begin. But, right now, he had something even more important to think of. His Savior wanted to meet the person who would save Paradise with ease, his precious one. He tutted when he felt her squirm underneath his hand, smoothing out the brush against her messy curls as he did. 

Kaitlyn blinked a few times and then looked at the reflection in the mirror. She would see Ray fretting over little things as he did but she hadn’t quite realized how much work he was doing. He had taken great care to make her look exactly as radiant as she was. If they didn't see it before, they would see it in front of the Savior.

He caught her hand before it could touch her hand, and he lowered it back down onto her lap with a tight smile. He spent an awfully long time making her messy curls tighter and consistent. He didn’t want her to mess any of it up because she wasn’t in the state of mind to look at herself just yet. 

She was easily placated, though.

All it’d taken to make her listen to him in the first place was to wrap his coat around her shoulders. She stopped shivering and shaking when he did. It was almost adorable. Compared to the acidic mint and undertones of alcohol within the potion, he imagined the floral scent calmed her down. Aromatherapy was a good idea! If he could’ve taken her back to the garden... 

As the clarity was slowly returning, she seemed like in a daze and more of a frenzy. Her eyes darted all over the place as she strained to figure out where she was and why she was there. He knew that feeling, it happened often as he came out of the buzz that elixir warranted to those that survived the first trial. 

"Why…?" 

"You're meeting with my Savior, remember?" 

He frowned. What did she have to be afraid of? Did she misunderstand how lucky she was? Or, was the elixir still making her fearful to be alone with other people except for him? She would cry out with names that he couldn’t recall or know, after all. She might’ve been scared to make a fool of herself in front of his Savior. 

Something akin to fear flashed in her eyes, “I thought... I thought you said she was okay with us being together, Ray.” 

“Of course! My Savior promised that we’ll be together, but she wants to meet you so our mission can begin. After all, she wants to formally greet you as a true member of paradise! You took the elixir so well, too. It’s amazing. So, she wants you to see our paradise now that you’re able to function properly.” 

She’d seen worse. 

—

“I’m...” 

“A member of paradise,” Rika spoke with resolution. Her emerald eyes flickered over the newcomer, as if sizing her up and trying to figure out the best way to be able to pick her mind apart. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you to Magenta, for the first time, officially. While you must be surprised to be here with you, I must thank you for offering your wisdom and insight to ensure our success.” 

To put it plainly, Rika was searching for something in between the lines. Ray had said over and over that her information knew no bounds but there were parts of it that he couldn’t gain access to quite yet. She knew everything about them and yet, she was devoted to the cause. She had no doubt in her mind after what he’d shown her on that phone. 

She always imagined that she would have to tether Ray with a string to keep him to obey but now she had two tools to use at her disposal. She not only had Ray who worked himself like a dog for the smallest grain of affection, and now, this girl who would do anything for Ray and the paradise that he wanted to hold so badly. 

Photos that couldn’t exist in this world as they existed in quality unlike their own. Information about everything and everyone that nobody was ever meant to get into their hands. Reports and essays that could rival anyone in their terms of control and clarity. Her devotion to Ray was something else, and it could readily be used and manipulated. 

An idealistic young woman who believed in empathy and shining love. She was a realist but her romantic heart could sway her to be bent easily. It reminded her much of herself before she realized her true potential. A shining light was easy to capture as long as you had the right tools. 

Then, she would finally feel the light of salvation. 

This could be a useful love. 

Love built upon obsession that came from sincere bonds. Unlike the way that her former flame had done. His love had burned and devoured every part of her heart and now... she could take back her precious family from his clutches and wave this love in his face. She could use it, she could use them, and she was going to do so.

Though, Ray seemed to have dosed her with more than she expected. Her eyes still looked glossy even though she had enough clarity to realize the situation at hand. Her hand nervously fiddled with the fabric of the borrowed coat she wore, as her eyes darted left to right, not wanting to meet Rika’s gaze. 

No matter, it was a delight either way to see things working. 

Though this girl was taller than she was, she paid no mind, resting her hand against her shoulder to catch her attention. “You don’t need to worry about a thing. You’ve proven your capability already with your charming perspective, I must say, you’re a delightful read when you tear people down. You’ve seen the things I’ve always overlooked.” 

“Ah, I...” Kaitlyn murmured. It was a small nod to indicate that she’d heard what Rika said. “I... I like to study people, it’s a hobby... I’m not that great for what it's worth.” 

Oh. 

An insecurity. 

“Ray has shown me otherwise. Your words will be the very thing that save my precious mistreated family. I’m interested to hear more about what you think we should do. After all, someone as devoted as you can only know talent. Trust me, I know skill when I see it. I welcome it to our paradise because we need people like you.”

“...Thank you, Savior,” the words seemed foreign against her lips but she had managed to catch herself in time. She seemed to be good in print but in need with her actual words. “I... I’m thankful you see it that way. I’m...  I’m happy you have welcomed me.”

Rika’s attention shifted back to Ray. He seemed to be eyeing his plaything with a serious fever in his eyes. It could’ve been a problem, but... as long as she knew that this infatuation was going to secure paradise, she would allow it. It wasn’t as if they would be able to turn away from their promised future. It was a given, and Ray would never let go of it, now. 

She smiled. 

What a frightened little rabbit. 

“Ray, be a dear and see to it that she’s comfortable. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us if we want to achieve our goals within the next few months... aren’t you pleased it won’t take years to succeed now? All you’ve ever wanted, you’ve got it in your grasps. Don’t lose sight of that,” her voice was clear. “To get what you want, you must never look away from what’s ahead. No matter how ugly it seems. After all, I have a strong feeling that our dear Kaitlyn will have them on their knees soon enough.” 

His expression changed with that. His lips curled upward and he nodded, his way of saying he understood. The bloodlust in his eyes... now, that was what she wanted to hold onto. As long as he behaved, as long as he kept his dream ahead, paradise would thrive, and she would have what she wanted. Jihyun on his hands and knees, begging for mercy. 

And she’d snap him like a twig for thinking she’d given him a chance after what he did. 

Rika stepped back and Ray stepped forward. He took her by the hand and let her gaze into his eyes, that cloudy look leaving him as he played the role that he wanted. Pity, he wanted to be a prince when he was better suited for something else. Well, in due time, she thought. 

“I’ll begin preparations, my Savior. For eternal paradise.” 

“For eternal paradise, my children.”

[guoxinghe]

Makoto Tachibana x Reader - How You Remind Me

I wrote this a looooooooong time ago back when I was on Deviant Art. 

Smut

Snowflakes danced around the both of you, collecting on your eyelashes.  The frigid gale quickly turned your cheeks red and dry as Makoto and you walked down the sidewalk.  A strong arm was wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close to him, ensuring you didn’t slip on the small patches of ice.  You always seemed to find them under your feet, and too many times, you fell on your ass, bruising it for a couple days. That was before you met Makoto though. Even before you started dating, he’d always hold onto you when out and about during winter.  

Upon reaching the door to your apartment, Makoto ushered your shivering self inside, saying, “You’re freezing. I don’t want you catching a cold, love.”

“Mako, you don’t get a cold from the cold,” you remarked, but then you ended up sneezing multiple times into your sleeve.  Before he could say anything, you grumbled, “Not one word, sweetheart.”

Sighing in exasperation, he led you over to the plush sofa and grabbed a couple blankets from the large wicker basket.  You wished he didn’t worry so much, but asking for that was like asking Haru to never swim again.  So, you remained still as he wrapped blanket after blanket around you, pressing the back of his hands to your cheeks to help warm them up.  

Deep down, you appreciated these gestures because you frequently forgot to take care of yourself. For example, you tended to be a night owl, staying up well after midnight.  You really did try to sleep earlier, but you always got sidetracked and distracted by something.  You’d only realize how late it’d become if Makoto sent you a text if he woke in the middle of the night.  It was usually along the lines of “Get some sleep please, sweetheart” or “It’s really late.  You can finish what you need to tomorrow, love.”

After you’d become a sufficient blanket burrito, Makoto flitted about the kitchen, grabbing a couple mugs you’d been gifted for your birthday by Gou.  The aroma of freshly heated cocoa filled the apartment as he poured the chocolate into the mugs.  A small smile curved your lips when he returned with two piping hot cups of hot chocolate.  Settling next to you, Makoto immediately pulled you into his lap, holding you flush against him.  Your head rested against his firm chest, cradled in his arms.  

Kissing your forehead, he asked, “Warm?”

You giggled and nuzzled against him, relishing in his affections.  “Very.  Thanks, Mako.”

“I worry about you,” he said, brow wrinkled, “I’m worried you’re going to get really sick one of these days because you didn’t eat enough nutritious food, or you stayed up too late on too many nights.”

Frowning guiltily, you sighed.  “I know, I know.  But you don’t need to worry so much.”

“Nonsense.  Of course, I worry because I love you.”  After taking a sip of his hot chocolate, Makoto covered your lips with his in a chaste kiss.  “I love you more than anything.”

Not letting him escape, you reached up to let your palm rest against his nape, pulling him back down to kiss again.  Immediately, he melted into the kiss, probing you for entrance with his tongue.  You eagerly greeted him with your own, twining them around each other, savoring the taste of chocolate and him.  He groaned lightly into the kiss, bracing himself against the armrest with his free hand while the other wrapped securely around you.  In a swift motion, he stood causing you to squeak in surprise.  He carried you bridal style into your cozy bedroom down the hallway.

Pressing one more kiss to your nose, he set you down on the bed before stripping off his shirt, revealing hardened muscle underneath.  His pants sat low, teasing you with the sight of the sharp v of his hips. It was enough to make you rub your thighs together in anticipation underneath all those blankets.  

Leaning down, he cooed in your ear, “Just let me take care of you, love.”

A blush formed on your cheeks because you knew when he said that, you were going to be completely wrung out afterwards.  Slowly, he unwrapped the blankets from around you, causing you to shiver momentarily. Still, you’d be warm again soon enough, and you coyly bit your lip at the thought.  Large warm hands slid underneath your shirt to caress your sides. You sighed happily with his half-lidded gaze pinned on you underneath him.  Arching your back, you allowed him to sneak a hand around to undo the clasps of your bra.  He lifted your shirt up, stripping it off along with your bra, leaving your upper body bare.  Instinctively, you crossed an arm around your chest and averted your gaze, anxiety pooling in your gut.

Makoto frowned slightly, but he wasn’t upset at you.  No, he could never be.  He knew how terribly the voices whispered, calling you bitter names that never did fit you; ugly, hideous, disgusting, unlovable.  He didn’t miss the glistening tears welling in your eyes or your lips thinly pursed together in rumination.  Brushing a finger underneath your chin, he tilted your gaze back towards him.  Your eyes were wide in trepidation, and he could see the gears turning in your head.

He soothed, brushing a thumb along your cheek, “Focus on me, okay?”

Swallowing hard, you nodded meekly.  Gingerly, he brought your arm away from your chest, bringing your fingers up to his lips. He kissed each knuckle in turn, cradling your hand in the warmth of his own.  Smiling encouragingly, he squeezed your hand as he trailed kisses along your neck, the warmth of his tongue sparking prickles along your skin.  His free hand snuck down to your pants, caressing your hip underneath the fabric.  You inhaled sharply, goosebumps forming along your skin.  Pulling away, he snuck his other hand under your pants and slipped them off you, taking your panties with them.  Stripped completely naked, you scooted further up the bed, trying to keep your eyes fixed on Makoto.  His eyes never left yours as he trailed kisses down your stomach, along your hips, and brushing your inner thighs.  

Face to face with your arousal, he praised, “Pretty girl.”  Taking your hand again, he licked along your clit.  You squeezed his hand in turn, making him chuckle.  “You’re always so sensitive for me, sweetheart.”

Before you could say anything more, he slid his tongue inside, flicking it upwards in just the way you like.  You whimpered, hips wiggling involuntarily under his ministrations.  He smiled against you, bringing his tongue up to flick at your bundle of nerves again.  Slowly, he inserted a couple fingers, curling upwards to rub against your walls.  Groaning lightly in pleasure, your body finally relaxed in his hold.  

“Oh, Mako,” you breathed shakily as he caressed that sweet spot inside of you while sucking hard on your bud.

He pressed his fingertips harder, causing your legs to slightly quake as you shifted from the sensation.  It never took you long to come, and he always could tell when you needed just a tad more stimulation to push you over the proverbial cliff.  He rubbed faster, groaning against you when you bucked your hips. A couple more strokes had you gasping, writhing on the bed, legs threatening to clamp around his head.

Once your body calmed again, he decided to hazard a glance up at you.  Your forearm was laid across your forehead, chest heaving shakily with each breath.  Stepping back, he quickly removed his pants and boxers, stroking himself a couple times before joining you again.  Caressing along your inner thighs, he crawled back up along your body, kissing and suckling patches of skin, leaving small marks in his wake.  Nibbling slightly by your collarbone, his hand slid to cup your breast, thumb rubbing against the rigid tip.  

He whispered against the shell of your ear, “Ready?”

Hearing you hum in confirmation, he lined himself up and slowly pushed into your entrance. Groaning softly, he watched your expression for any signs of discomfort.  When he rocked forward another fraction of an inch, a sharp whimper escaped you.  Makoto froze, concern evident in the otherwise peaceful verdant of his eyes. Willing yourself to relax, you took a few deep breaths, letting tension melt into desire.  When the pain dulled, giving way to pleasure, you wrapped your arms around his neck, nodding for him to keep going.  Hips moving meticulously, Makoto cradled you in his arms, dropping kisses along your neck.  You shivered in delight, feeling his hardened muscle rub against your stomach.  

Pulling away, he watched your face scrunch up in pleasure.  Smiling, he pressed his forehead against yours.  “You’re so beautiful like this, spread bare beneath me. I’ll tell you as many times as I need to.”

Blushing, you hid your face in the crook of his neck, whimpering, “M-Mako…”

As you grew more accustomed to his size, his thrusts came faster, making you writhe underneath him from hypersensitivity.  Reaching down, he rubbed a finger against the aching bundle of nerves, never faltering in his movements.  There was no way in hell he was gonna finish first before you came a second time.  No, he wanted – needed – to draw out every bit of pleasure from your body which he adored so much.  He watched your eyes slip in and out of focus with each movement.  Groaning at the sight, he swallowed your whimpers in a passionate kiss, tongue twining with yours lazily before oxygen called him to pull away.  

He purred, “Can you give me a second one, sweetheart?”

You whined, hips bucking against his touch.  “M-Mako, I’m c-close…”

Kissing your forehead, his finger rubbed harder as he angled his thrusts deeper, hitting consistently against that sweet spot inside.  You could tell he was losing himself to desire too, shuddering and panting through ecstatic bliss.  Your legs trembled underneath him from all the stimulation.  It was like trying to hold cupped water in your hands, your mind slipping until the pleasure was all you could think about.  Thrusting one last time, Makoto felt you contract around him as your body tensed, chest heaving and gulping for air while you came undone beneath him.  You came with the cry of his name, and God, he had to kiss you for that.  Your hands had slipped from his neck to grip the pillow beneath you.  Cradling you in both arms again, he quickened his thrusts.

 “See?  This,” he moaned with a harsh gasp, like he could barely keep his composure through each shaky breath, “This is what you do to me.  You’re the only one who can make me feel this way, love.  I don’t have a problem reminding you.”  He chuckled breathlessly and smiled.  “Believe me.”

You cried, “Makoto!”

Capturing your lips again, he moaned as he came hard and uninhibited, trembling through his release.  Tightening his hold on you, he kept you under his protective warmth as he came down from his high.

Pulling out, he grabbed a towel on the side table.  Your body was like liquid, unable to move, but you certainly had no complaints.  Gingerly, he began wiping at the residue between your legs, stroking your hips with tenderness.  After cleaning himself up as well, Makoto settled down beside you and gathered you in his arms.  Your head rested on his chest, eyes fluttering closed with exhaustion. Fingers stroking your upper arm, he pressed his lips to your hairline.  You smiled sweetly and craned your neck up, asking for a direct kiss.

Staring down at you, his gaze holding all the affection in the world, he met your lips in a chaste kiss.  “I love you, sweetheart.”